You cannot, sir, take from me any thing that I will more willingly part withal: except my life, except my life, except my life.
So we grew together like to a double cherry, seeming parted, but yet an union in partition, two lovely berries molded on one stem.
True love cannot be found where it truly does not exist, nor can it be hidden where it truly does.
The tempter or the tempted, who sins most?
Silence is the perfectest herault of joy. I were but little happy if I could say how much.
Out, damned spot! out, I say!
We burn daylight.
O God, I could be bound in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space – were it not that I have bad dreams.
The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus. Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music.
So fair and foul a day i had not seen.
How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath?
The weight of this sad time we must obey, Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most: we that are young Shall never see so much, nor live so long.
How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees? Iago.
Things base and vile, holding no quantity, Love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind. Nor hath Love’s mind of any judgment taste; Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste.
For she had eyes and chose me.
Many a true word hath been spoken in jest.
I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in.
For it falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us While it was ours.
What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living? Beatrice: Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick?
Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin, as self-neglecting.